Retribution
by WhatAmIDoingHere
Summary: Held captive by a psychopath after a mission gone bad, Michael must survive until his team arrives.
1. Chapter 1

**RETRIBUTION**

**Chapter 1: The Trade**

Gunfire continued to erupt from the woods behind them. "Keep moving! Sam! Keep them moving!" Michael shouted. "Get them to the boat!" he yelled as they broke into a clearing only fifty yards from the dock. More shots and now mortar fire answered from behind. "Get down!" Michael yelled as he dove on top of the child running to the right and in front of him, shielding her body with his as shrapnel exploded around them. Rolling off of her he fired his side arm back toward their pursuers, then pulling the child to her feet shoved her forward again, not getting far before he yanked her sideways, shots tearing up the ground where they'd been just an instant before. Finding cover behind a large uprooted tree he returned fire.

The child stood behind him, hands clasped over her ears. Her eyes widening as she noticed blood soaking through the back of Michael's shirt. Picking off the lead pursuer, Michael turned to move forward again, gasping as the injury made itself known. Reaching his hand to his back, he pulled it away covered in blood. But there was no time for injuries. Once on the boat, Fi and Jesse would be there with plenty of back up fire power and hopefully a band-aid… or maybe a _few_ band-aids, judging by the amount of blood on his hand. But first they had to make it to the boat.

Signaling Sam, Michael sent the girl toward him, laying down cover fire as she crossed the clearing, joining her mother and younger sibling along with Sam. Waving for them to keep moving, Michael stayed put, continuing to provide cover as they ran down the dock of the dilapidated marina, headed for the inbound fishing boat barreling towards them. "Fi," he mouthed her name and a small grin edged up the corner of his mouth. Michael knew only one person who would bring a boat in that fast. He could also make out Jesse hustling on deck toward Sam, rifle in hand. The Calvary was here. He got ready for his sprint to the boat, knowing his friends would cover him once they had the family on board.

Sam reached the boat with his charges and all but threw them over the railing and on board. "Get in! Get down!" he yelled. And then, "Mike! Come on! Jesse! Bring him in!"

"Bringing," Jessie responded, gun to his shoulder as he scanned the clearing. But there was no sign of Michael. Only advancing rebels bursting into the clearing and shooting up the dock, their bullets sending pieces of wood flying.

"I don't see him!" Jesse shouted over his shoulder, returning fire.

"Crap!" Sam exclaimed, desperately scanning the clearing. "Fi!" he screamed over the din of gunfire, "Do you have eyes on Michael?"

"No!" she called down from the pilothouse, just as mortar fire hit the dock near the boat, sending shrapnel and water flying.

More rebels poured into the clearing making it increasingly obvious they would soon be overrun.

"We gotta go!" Jesse yelled. "Sam!"

"Go!" Sam shouted up to Fi.

"Michael! We can't leave Michael!" she exclaimed, as another round exploded so close the boat listed violently. The children screamed in fear.

"We'll come back for him. _Go_!" Sam yelled again, he and Jesse still firing at the advancing forces.

Fiona pushed the throttle forward and they zoomed from the marina towards open water and safety.

Minutes later they were gathered on the deck.

"Sam…" Fiona's voice caught.

"We'll get him back, Fi."

"What _happened_?" she asked, despair mixing with anger in her voice.

"I don't know," Sam shook his head.

"I never had eyes on him," Jesse added. "Where was he?"

"The last place I saw he was about forty meters out from the dock near the edge of the clearing, laying down cover for us." As Sam spoke a small hand reached up and tugged at his arm, interrupting him. It was the girl Michael had helped in the clearing.

"Excuse, please," she said in slightly broken English. "Your friend," she said, "I saw blood." And she reached around to her lower back. "Here," she said.

"He was shot?" Sam asked, dismayed by the new info.

She shook her head. "I think... the… the… big," and she threw her arms out wide. "_BOOM_."

"A mortar round," Fi groaned. "Sam…"

"Okay, let's not get ahead of ourselves here," Sam said, and knelt down in front of the child.

"What's your name, sweetie?" he asked, as her mother also approached, carrying another, younger child.

"Jin," the little girl spoke quietly.

"That's a pretty name," Sam smiled at her. "How old are you, Jin?"

"Nine and a half."

"Almost ten years old!" Sam exclaimed as the little girl shook her head yes and stood up a little straighter. "Is that your little brother?" he nodded toward the little boy, sound asleep and draped over his mother's shoulder.

"Uh huh, but he's only just turned six," she said, and stood up straighter still.

"Yes, I can see you are much older," he assured. "Jin," he said, switching gears, his voice growing more serious, "I know this isn't fun to talk about, but can you tell me _exactly _where you saw the blood on my friend?"

She nodded. "It was here," she said, and showed him again, putting her hand on her lower back, to the side.

"Okay," Sam said. "Did you see anything else besides the blood?"

"No. Just blood. Will he die?" she blurted out, her 9 ½ year old pluck beginning to wane, tears welling in her eyes.

"Naw," Sam reassured her. "He's way too tough! I'm sure he'll be just fine," he said. "Why don't you and your Ma take your little brother down below and rest for a while?" Looking at Jin's mother, "I'll be down to talk with you later," he said. "Don't worry. Your husband is safe and we'll be taking you to him soon. For now, take the children down below and try to get some rest."

"I… I don't know how to thank you," she almost sobbed, and reached up with her free arm and hugged his neck.

"No problem," Sam assured. "Now go get some rest." Turning, he grimly walked back to Fiona and Jesse.

"Okay, so no gaping wound, no shrapnel showing," Sam began immediately, looking at Fi. "Depending on the angle of penetration, it's possible no serious damage was done," he said, trying to sound reassuring. "And when I saw him, which according to Jin must have been _after_ he was hit, he seemed pretty alert and mobile."

"At the very least, he's alone and injured," Fi said flatly.

"I'm just saying I don't think he's bleeding out somewhere."

"Is that's supposed be make me feel better?" she snapped. "We have to go back!" she said, and turning started back up the stairs to the boat's pilothouse, ready to speed back toward the marina.

"Look, Fi, I want to go back as bad as you do," Sam argued, catching her at the steps. "But right now isn't the time."

"Says the man who left him behind!" she said vehemently, continuing towards the pilothouse.

Sam paused, stung by her words.

"I agree with Sam," Jesse stepped in.

Fi spun around and glared at him. "I'm going after Michael. You and Sam can swim home if you like."

"Look. I'm just sayin'," Jesse said, throwing his hands up defensively. "Going back now will just get us killed, and then who's gonna save Mike? Huh? We need a plan, people!"

Fi continued to glare at Jesse, but her anger was subsiding. She knew he was right. The CIA had been abundantly clear that while they wanted this mission to succeed, no help would be forthcoming if things went south.

"You saw the numbers out there," Sam added, his voice softening. "And if Herrera has him…" his words trailed off as he voiced his worst fear. For if this was the case, and it likely was, Michael's situation was infinitely worse than just being injured and alone.

Sadistic and vicious, Herrera was an arms dealer with a violent temper; his conscienceless crimes the stuff of nightmares. He would delight in making the man responsible for losing his hostages pay. And pay dearly.

"If Herrera has him," Jesse said, "Mike is in some serious trouble."

"But likely at least alive," Sam added, trying to stay positive. "But if we go in there now, guns blazing, all it's going to do is get Mike dead and us dead with him. Besides we have someone else to think about right now." And he nodded in the direction of the family. The family they had gone in to rescue. The family they had likely just traded Michael's life for.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two **

Michael drifted slowly in circles, hanging by chains strung from the ceiling and attached to wide metal cuffs encircling his wrists. Blood from his wounds ran down his body and dripped lazily from his feet, eventually finding its way to a drain in the floor below. Another blow came and spun him around again. He didn't really feel it. He was past the point of registering any pain. Or so he thought.

He had tried to make his run for the boat once he saw the family was on board, but had drastically underestimated the effects of his injury. His adrenaline rush had worn off, and turning to run, he'd found his legs heavy and sluggish. Instead of his intended wind sprint to the boat and safety, he had stumbled over a tree root and fallen face first to the ground. Vision graying he tried to drag himself back to his feet only to find himself surrounded on all sides by seriously ticked off rebels. Obviously they'd found little humor in the events of the last few hours. He'd been just conscious enough to see the butt of a gun stock heading for his head when the rest of the lights went out. When he awoke he was hanging from a chain like a piece of meat in a locker.

Since then he'd been questioned and beaten by what he considered to be rank amateurs. Huge, hulking, meaty fisted thugs, they had simply whaled on him until they got tired. He had, of course, given them nothing. As his sizable tormentors prepared for another round of piñata Westen, the door to the chamber swung open, and in walked an impeccably dressed and manicured man of about 50 years. The thugs immediately stopped what they were doing and awkwardly snapped to attention. The man gave them a half-hearted salute and wordlessly continued into the room. It was unmistakably Herrera.

Michael knew this man, or at least of him. And for the first time he felt a twinge of real fear. The others he could handle. Eventually he'd talk his way out, fight his way out, or at the very least, they'd get tired and just kill him. And if they came close enough, he might even have the opportunity to kill one of them first. Either way, he'd give them nothing… unless they counted trouble. He planned to give them plenty of that.

But Herrera was in a class unto himself. Michael tried to shake away the trepidation creeping into his thoughts and instead concentrated on the fact that his friends would come for him. He just had to hold on until then.

Herrera continued into the room, and without a word began to circle Michael like a shark, assessing his new prize, taking in information, and particularly noting the jagged shrapnel wound. "Bring him down," he ordered, breaking his silence, his voice surprisingly quiet and genteel. Almost instantly the chains holding Michael aloft were lowered. His minions well aware orders given by this man must be carried out quickly and without hesitation, for depending on their boss's mood, even the smallest delay could well mean their death.

As Michael's legs once again took the weight of his body, his knees nearly buckled. "Hold him," Herrera bade calmly, and his burly minions scrambled to obey, moving in from either side and holding him firmly in place. It was at this moment Michael had a decision to make. Though weakened and still chained, he was fairly certain he could use his legs to break the neck of at least one of his captors …before the other one killed _him. _OR he could bide his time and wait for a more profitable opportunity that might gain him freedom, or at the very least do more damage to a greater number of his captors. He chose the latter.

A moment later he came to regret that decision, as Herrera continued to circle, but then stopped abruptly behind him. Suddenly, and without warning, he plunged his thumb and fore fingers deep into Michael's wound.

Michael's eyes bulged in shock as he choked back a scream. He struggled wildly to get away but the goons held him firmly in place. Herrera continued, probing deeper into the wound. And this time there was no holding back the guttural scream that burst from Michael's lips. Gasping for breath, his entire body writhing and shuddering, unable to get away from the terrible, terrible pain, he screamed again.

Wholly ignoring his victims anguish, Herrera continued on, probing deeper still, finally grasping and ripping from Michael's flesh a two inch piece of jagged shrapnel. Walking back around, Herrera held the gory piece of metal in front of Michael's face as if in triumph, thick blood coating his hand. Michael's eyes struggled to focus and his head lolled to one side.

Shrugging, Herrera tossed the shrapnel away, then picked up a towel and wiped the blood disdainfully from his hands as he headed for the door. "Clean him up and dress his wound," he called back over his shoulder. "We can't have our guest bleed to death before I have a chance to question him." And then he simply walked back out of the room again, leaving Michael dazed and still gasping in pain.

As the goons raised the chains again to keep him upright, Michael's vision dimmed and he fought to remain conscious. Waves of agony continued to wash over his body. Abruptly he proceeded to empty the contents of his stomach. His captors swore bitterly at him but continued with their work. Stripping him of his clothes, they unrolled a large hose from a hook on the wall. Strafing his body with icy cold water, they proceeded to hose him down, washing the vomit, filth, and blood into the drain beneath him. Satisfied, they lowered the chain again and removed the cuffs from his wrists. Michael collapsed in a heap on the hard concrete floor and slowly curled into a fetal position. But even this small respite was short lived. Jerking him up, the goons manhandled him out the door, down the hall and through another door into what could only loosely be called an infirmary. A tired looking man in a white coat sat behind a desk and looked up over his glasses as they came in.

"Patch him up," one of the goons barked. "Herrera wants to question him!" And they all but threw Michael onto the nearby exam table.

Michael groaned loudly from the impact, clenching his arms around his waist and rolling to his least injured side. Head tilted back, mouth open, eyes clamped shut, he rode out the pain from the latest jolt to his battered body. Lying naked and shivering on the table, he drifted into shock.


	3. Chapter 3: Shock and Awww, Man!

**Chapter 3 – Shock and **_**Aw, Man!**_

**A/N:** Thanks to all for adding/following my story, and especially to those who take the time to review. Reviews are the biggest reward and I do pay attention. Thus far, from the pm's and reviews, it seems most would like me to tone things down. I had already written most of this chapter, but did go back and revised a bit to accommodate, so let me know what you think. Constructive criticism always welcome. And, yes, I have a story and a background and and and. LOL! I just have to get to it. "Baby steps." :0) And speaking of which, YES, Maddie WILL be included in this story.

_**BN BN BN BN BN BN**_

_Shock stuns and weakens the body. If left untreated, it can lead to __collapse, coma or even death. __It__ occurs when the total volume of blood in your body drops below normal due to bleeding, dehydration, or other reasons such as having someone shove their fist into your side and rip out a piece of metal. _

The doctor sighed heavily as he looked down at his latest unfortunate patient. Pale and sweating the man lay curled on his side, breathing rapidly through blue tinged lips. He was beaten and bruised, and the flesh around his wrists resembled raw hamburger. He also sported a deep gash on his forehead and an ugly, ragged and deep wound to the side. All of this combined with the accompanying blood loss announced clearly his patient was rapidly moving through the stages of shock.

Rolling Michael onto his back, he covered him with a blanket and elevated his legs. Slapping him lightly on the face he tried to bring his patient back to some level of consciousness. Eventually Michael lifted an arm in an uncoordinated attempt to ward off the offending blows.

"That's it, that's it," the doctor encouraged. "Open your eyes," he continued.

Michael's eyes fluttered and finally opened.

"Good, good!" the doctor smiled. "Can you tell me your name?" And as soon as the question was asked he could see the walls go up.

"No matter," the doctor smiled warmly. He'd been in the forced employ of Herrera too long not to spot the familiar reaction. "I'll just call you Joe. My name is Doctor Andres, but you can call me Andy if you like."

Michael looked up at the doctor and then around in confusion, trying to clear his mind. Automatically falling back on his training, he remained silent.

"That's what my friends call me," the doctor chatted on, making small talk as he worked. Gently rotating Michael's arm, careful to avoid his wrists, he searched for a good vein. Finding one he swabbed the area and quickly began an iv. Michael moaned and weakly tried to pull away as the hollow spike drove home.

"I know," the doctor sympathized, holding his arm fast, "almost done," he said, removing the needle and advancing the catheter further into the vein. "There!" he said. "Do you know your blood type?" he asked.

Michael frowned deeply and mumbled, "No blood."

Andy smiled. He was pleased his patient was not only responding to questions, but alert enough to think twice about being infused with blood from the likes of this place. "Don't worry," he explained. "Our supply has been stolen from only the finest of blood banks," he winked. "Now, what type?"

Michael said nothing.

"I can test you myself, Joe," Andy said matter o' fact-ly. "I'm just trying to save a little time. I want to help you as much as I can, as quickly as I can," he said. And he nodded toward the doorway where the goons stood guard just on the other side. "I don't know how long they are going to let me keep you here. I'll do my best to help you, but you have to help _me_. You have to trust me, Joe. Do you understand?"

And Michael understood, and knew the doctor was right. He had to trust him; had to trust someone. Even if it was the wrong choice, he'd be dead either way. "A-positive," Michael rasped out, his voice barely audible.

"A positive it is," Andy smiled again. "I'll be right back." And true to his word he was only gone a moment. Quickly hanging the blood he connected it to the iv.

"Now let's see what we can do about these wounds," he offered. "But first let's get you a little more comfortable," he said, uncapping a syringe and measuring off some morphine.

"No."

"What did I say about trusting me, Joe?"

"Need to… I need to be able to think," he gasped out.

Andy's heart ached. Clammy and pale, sweat ran in rivulets down his patient's face as tremors of pain traversed his body from head to toe. Even so, he was refusing medication.

He was so sick of this; so tired of the damage done by Herrera and his minions. "You have to let me help you, son," he said quietly. "You know this has to be done. I need to stop the bleeding and patch you up. We should be doing this under full anesthesia, but morphine and procaine are the best I can do. And I won't work on you without it," he frowned. "I'm not Herrera."

Resignation slowly registered on Michael's face. He nodded slightly and Andy responded with a compassionate smile. "That's the spirit."

"Michael."

"What's that?" Andy asked, leaning in.

"My name…" Michael said shakily. "My name is Michael Westen."

Andy smiled down at him. "Pleased to meet you, Michael," he said. "Now what do you say we get you patched up? That bag of blood is going to do you no good if you're going to just leak it out again."

Grabbing the vial of morphine, he measured it quickly, and pumped it into the IV port. His patient showed near immediate relief. Facial features relaxing, breath slowing, Michael's body ceased it's shaking. Bleary and bloodshot eyes looked up at Andy, trying to focus but fighting a losing battle with eyelids that continued to slide shut, occasionally fluttering back open, but then sliding shut again.

"That's it. That's the ticket," Andy encouraged. "Just relax," he soothed. "Let yourself go to sleep. Old Andy's going to take good care of you."

And Michael slept.

_BN BN BN BN BN BN_

Two days prior Michael had made his way to the Caymans on a mission to rescue the family of Nissho Tanaka. Tanaka was an engineer being blackmailed into providing Herrera with plans for a top secret next generation predator drone. Herrera would in turn sell the finished product to an eager merc with a fist full of millions and visions of grandeur. It was to be Herrera's last hurrah; his ticket to a lengthy and enjoyable retirement here in the Caymans.

But he hadn't factored a Michael Westen into his retirement plan. Unfortunately Michael had not factored his CIA intel would lack important details; details such as the true size and strength of Herrera's forces.

Out manned and outgunned, it was a miracle all of them had survived, much less made it out with the hostages. Well, _almost _all of them had made it out.

_BN BN BN BN BN BN_

When he awoke Michael found himself swathed in bandages, breathing through a nasal cannula. A second iv was in his other arm with a near empty bag of fluids attached. Andy dozed in the chair beside him.

Forcing himself to focus, Michael looked about the room and began gathering his wits and strength. He had just begun formulating an escape when the door to the infirmary slammed open.


	4. Chapter 4: Oh, Brother!

_**A/N: **__Okay, I feel like I have some 'splainin' to do. :0) When I began the outline of this story 1) I assumed Fiona would eventually get out of jail; 2) I did not know Nate was going to die; 3) I did not know Card was going to be revealed as a traitor. So. This story is going to be a bit different re the last two points. Sorry. I was just too far along to incorporate these huge developments, though I MIGHT find a way to incorporate them somehow later on. Anyway, here we go! THANK YOU for reviewing!_

**Chapter 4: Oh, Brother!**

"Get him up!" barked one of the two soldiers as they burst into the room. "Herrera wants to see him! _Now!"_

_When you're a spy, one of the most valuable skills you learn is how to gauge your enemies. How far you can push them, whether you can manipulate and possibly even turn them into assets; and which ones you inherently know to steer clear of. _

These were not the same men who'd pummeled him the day before. Instead of mindless goons, these two appeared to be actual soldiers. Older Mercs, who'd experienced much, and because of their resourcefulness, lived to tell about it. They were experienced, trained, and hardened by years of combat. While babysitting a broken spy would clearly not be high on their list of favorite duties, Michael knew the type. These men would carry out their duty, big or small, and at all costs. They were going to be a problem.

Andy rose and stood between Michael and the two men. "Tell Herrera if he wants to try to question a dead man, he can have him now. Otherwise he's going to have to wait. This man has serious injuries. Besides the obvious, he's bleeding internally. Likely from the beating your friends gave him," he spat. "If you take him now, he'll be dead before Herrera lays eyes on him."

Obviously seasoned professionals, everything about these two warned to tread carefully. It was clear Herrera had made sure those closest to him were of his same ilk. Standing up to them, as Andy had done, was a truly dangerous game.

The mercs looked over at Michael, still lying on the exam table. Ghostly pale he was covered in bandages dotted with blood, various tubes and wires snaking out from under his blanket. It was certainly reasonable to believe the doctor's words. Not that they actually cared if the man died, but their orders were to bring the prisoner to Herrera. Delivering him dead was probably not in their best interest. The taller of the two nodded at the other, who nodded back. Then turning to Andy, said in a gruff voice, "We'll be back!" And with that they left, pushing past the original two goons still standing guard outside.

Closing the door behind them, Andy turned to Michael. "Don't worry. I was just trying to buy you more time," he explained. "You did have some internal bleeding, but you'll be fine. Most of your injuries simply require rest and time," he said, and then sighed. Knowing full well neither would be options for his patient.

"Thanks," Michael replied, likewise understanding rest and time to heal would not be forthcoming. "I need to find a way out of here," he said, and attempting to sit up, slowly swung his legs over the side of the bed. Immediately his world spun, and he gripped the sides of his bed, reeling backward. Andy grabbed him and forced him back down, lifting his legs back onto the table.

"Let that be a lesson to you. You'll be fine, but you're not fine, yet. You're in no shape to get out of bed," he said.

"I need to find a way out of here," Michael repeated, sweat already beading on his forehead just from the simple act of trying to sit up. Andy pretended not to hear, fussing over him, taking his vitals and flashing a light in his eyes to check his pupils. Pushing his hand away, Michael grabbed the doctor's wrist. "You know I'm a dead man if I don't get out of here before they come back. Are there any other exits from this room?" he hissed.

"No," Andy jerked his wrist free, "Just that door. Unless you want to try for the ceiling," he quipped, falling back into medical routine, hanging a new bag of fluids as he talked, trying to make himself pretend the nightmare he was once again living wasn't real; that the outcome for this patient would be healing instead of torture and death. He had lived this nightmare over and over again. "I need to check your bandages," he said, almost to himself.

"Good idea," Michael said.

"I'm glad you approve, _Doctor_ Westen," Andy quipped.

"I wasn't talking about the bandages," Michael answered. "Do you have any sort of ladder in here? Anything I can use to climb on? If I can get to the ceiling I can try to get into the duct work and maybe make my way out." He looked around the room. "Never mind," he said, spying a file cabinet. "I'll use that," he nodded, and once again tried to sit up, this time succeeding. Ripping the leads from his chest and pulling out his I.V.'s, he attempted to stand.

"What? No!" Andy exclaimed, trying to stop him. "You can't get up. You certainly can't be climbing. You'll start bleeding again!"

"Like I said, if I don't leave now, I'll be dead anyway."

"No, Mr. Westen."

The soft melodic voice caught them both off guard and they turned to the doorway.

"If you leave now, you will _both_ be dead," Herrera assured as he walked into the room, a pleasant smile on his face. "Brother," he continued, looking at Andy, arms outstretched as if offering an embrace. "Did you really think I would not have your clinic bugged?"

"_Brother_?"

"Ah, yes. _Brother_," Herrera smiled at Michael. "Didn't Andres tell you? It seems my brother often neglects to mention this bit of information."

_BN BN BN BN BN BN_

"Look, we have Tanaka and you just brought in his family. Mission accomplished!" Card exclaimed. "Good job. Now, go home."

Sam, Fiona, and Jesse stood in Card's CIA office, staring at him in disbelief.

"Michael is out there wounded and alone, thanks to your worthless Intel," Fiona seethed.

"It wasn't worthless," Card countered calmly. "You got in, didn't you?"

"You told us Herrera had a few body guards and some rental cops," Jesse protested. "Instead we get there and he's got like a platoon of professional soldiers, _waitin' _for _us_! It's a wonder we're not all dead!"

"And if it hadn't been for Michael, we would be!" Sam jumped in, his patience spent. "Look. We gotta get back there. If Herrera's got Michael he's in serious trouble."

Card averted his gaze.

"What?" Sam asked, immediately picking up on Card's body language. "What do you know?!" he demanded. "Herrera has Mike, doesn't he? You have intel."

"Michael can take care of himself," Card began.

Sam shook his head in disgust, cutting him off. "Look. We need support. Now. Both in the air and on the ground."

"You're dreaming, Axe," Card shot back. "Michael knew what he was getting into. All we needed was Tanaka. But Michael just _had_ to go in and play the white knight and bring out the family, too."

"You know they'd be dead now if hadn't!" Sam argued.

"Acceptable losses," Card shrugged. "Look, if the family had been with Tanaka when we grabbed him, we'd have brought them out. But Herrera had them on two different islands - smart move by the way. Anyway, the fact still remains we now have Tanaka. And thanks to you," and he pushed a finger at Sam's chest, "we have his family, too. Mission accomplished. Go have a beer, Sam. Michael will find his way out. And if he doesn't, well, he knew the risks."

Turning to leave, Card inexplicably suddenly discovered himself instead sprawled on the floor. Looking up he found none other than Madeline Westen standing over him, a paper weight clenched in her fist. If looks could kill there would have been nothing left but a smoldering hole in his office floor.

"Maddie!" Sam exclaimed. "Where'd you come from?" Before she could answer guards swarmed forward, drawing their guns, reacting to the sight of their boss hitting the deck.

"Whoa!" Sam exclaimed, immediately stepping between them and Madeline. "Ho, gee!" he said, raising his arms in a non-threatening gesture. "Take it easy, fellas!"

"Stand down!" Card ordered his men, as he tried to pick himself off the floor. "Put your guns away."

The guards hesitated.

"Back off I said!" he barked. "Stand down. Return to your posts. There's been a mistake."

Reluctantly the guards lowered their weapons and slowly dispersed.

"There's been a mistake, alright," Maddie growled, still wielding the paper weight. "The mistake was my son trusted you!"

"Now, Mrs. Westen," Card said, as he climbed to his feet.

"I'll 'now Mrs. Westen' you!" she hissed and came at him again. Sam caught her mid stride, pulling her away. "Maddie! Calm down!" he said.

Furious, she turned and tried to take a swing at Sam. "Let me go!"

"Fi! Talk some sense into her, would ya!" Sam exclaimed, as he blocked another swing.

"Madeline," Fi said earnestly, "Next time, feign with your right and go in with your left. Aim for the chin, you can't miss."

"Oh. Lotta help, there, Tinkerbelle!" Sam frowned.

"_Don't_ call me Tinkerbelle," she hissed.

Jesse rolled his eyes and sighed. "Really?" he exclaimed, stepping between them. "Really, people, really?" he repeated, looking around at his friends. "Can we focus? 'Cause right now I feel like I'm standin' in a room full of crazy people," he said taking the paper weight from Madeline's hand. "We're trying to get Mike out, are we not? Is that not why we're here? If the CIA won't help us, we'll just have to go do this ourselves. We're wasting time here. I'm guessing time Michael doesn't have."

"I'm with you, brother," Sam said. "Let's go."

"That's all well and fine," Fiona interrupted, "but we're out of… resources, thanks to this last little mission."

Madeline turned on Card, "As God is my witness," she said. "If my son dies because of you," she began.

"Look," Card said. "I can't give you any manpower, but I can give you all the toys you want to play with. Just try to bring the bigger ones back in one piece, okay?"

"Done," Sam said.

Card scribbled a name and phone number on a piece of paper and handed it to Sam. "This guy will get you what you need. Just remember, if things go south…"

"Right, right," Sam waved his hand, "We're on our own."

"I'm glad we're on the same page," Card said.

"Let's go, people," Jesse said, and they turned and walked out of Card's office.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Card turned to his stunned secretary. "Get me Washington," he fumed.


	5. Chapter 5: Air Roscoe

**Chapter Five: Air Roscoe**

Sam, Fiona, and Jesse hurriedly threw supplies into the back of the small plane, all provided as promised by Card's contact, Roscoe. Roscoe appeared to be nothing more than a go between, likely used to place a little more padding between exactly where the plane and weapons came from just in case things went south.

A curious little old man, Roscoe sported a grizzled beard and wild, uncombed hair. He was dressed in dirty cut-off jeans and a t-shirt, and had a rather large fish hook dangling from one ear. There were no shoes on his feet and by the gnarly look of them, there never had been. Obviously blind in one eye, it aimed up and away at an odd angle.

Habitually speaking in third person, he gave the clear impression he was most assuredly three or possibly more fries short of a happy meal. With one eye permanently pointing skyward while the other tracked Fiona intently and incessantly, he would burst forth with laughter at any given moment, at all the wrong times, and for all the wrong reasons.

Roscoe's wandering eye and disturbing outbursts of merriment aside, the goods had been delivered as promised. Fiona happily had enough C4 tucked away to blow up half the island, while Jesse and Sam had firearms that, as described by Roscoe, could shoot bullets half a mile and throw rocks the rest of the way.

They were good to go.

"Saddle up, people!" Jesse called out.

"Okay!" Rosco answered cheerfully. "Roscoe be right back! Rosco just need to grab his pack!" he called over his shoulder as he toddled back towards the hanger.

Fiona, Sam and Jesse glanced at each other in surprise.

"Whoa there, old timer," Sam called after him. "We don't need you to come along. You can just go on about your business," he said cheerfully. As the words came out of his mouth Sam couldn't help but wonder exactly what sort of business that might be.

Returning with his pack Roscoe squinted up at Sam with his good eye, "Rosco has to come along," he said. "Rosco your pilot!" he proclaimed, slapping Sam heartily on the back and winking at Fiona. Then breaking forth in yet another refrain of unfettered laughter he marched off toward the plane and cockpit.

"No no no no no. _I'm_ flying the plane," Jesse insisted, catching him at the steps. "You," he began, not quite sure how to phrase his response, then opted for blunt. "You're _not_," he said finally. "Look, just give me the coordinates to the air field and then… go get yourself a nice dinner, Pop. And maybe a haircut," he added as he shoved some twenties into Roscoe's shirt pocket.

"Roscoe have no coordinates! Coordinates up here!" he cackled happily, tapping his head and climbing the steps into the plane.

"Oh, goodie," Sam sighed. And looking at Fiona and Jesse, said, "I told you we should have asked for more beer," and reluctantly climbed into the plane.

_BN BN BN BN BN BN_

_When you're a spy, you're trained to deal with enemy interrogation; trained to resist the fear and the pain. But the cold math is the more valuable the information you hold, the harsher and more aggressive your captors tend to be. And if your captor's motives are simply revenge ...you don't make a lot of long term plans. _

_The key is making your way through to the end without being utterly broken, hopeful that end isn't a bullet to the head, or worse. The fear and pain must give way to clear thought in order to survive until rescue arrives. And when rescue does come, you have to dare to hope you're not just dreaming. That the nightmare is really over, and if you've done your job right, in the eyes of the world, you were never there in the first place._

Over the frantic but entirely ignored protests of Andy, Michael was pulled from his bed and half dragged, half carried down a long corridor, up several steps, and into another room that seemed on one side to be a posh office. The other side was a much different picture. Lush furnishings and rich carpet gave way to a cement floor and walls adorned with bolts and chains. Chains also hung from the ceiling above, and the floor was slightly concave with a drain at its center. To the left was a set of three thick iron poles running from floor to ceiling, each pole about a foot apart with the middle pole a few inches forward from the other two. Bolted to the poles were thick leather straps. To this Michael was fastened. His back forced against the center pole, his wrists anchored at shoulder level to the two side poles, his ankles likewise chained at the bottom two, all keeping him in an awkward, off balance position pushing his body forward while holding his arms and legs back. Too weak to hold himself up any longer, he slid down the cold iron bar. Unable to sit, he hung awkwardly from the straps encircling his already shredded wrists, and waited for his tormentor to arrive.

He was not kept waiting long.

Herrera entered the room and glancing at Michael, walked to his desk and opened a large side drawer. Retrieving what resembled an old fashioned medical bag, he laid it on his desk and opened it wide, peering in at the various vials, syringes, and bloody tools with unconcealed anticipatory delight. Making his selection he then reached beside his desk into what appeared to be an umbrella stand, pulling out a cattle prod. He looked toward Michael, his eyes black and unmerciful. "Stand up, Mr. Weston!" he chirped pleasantly. "I want to speak with you!" he said, walking over to him.

Michael hung by his chains, glaring up at him.

"Stand up! I said," he repeated, and this time touched Michael with the stick. Michael cried out and unsuccessfully struggled to make his legs push himself up. Herrera touched the stick to him again and Michael screamed anew, this time managing to push himself to his feet.

"That's better," Herrera encouraged. Walking back to his office door he glanced back at Michael and then nodded at the door, "I don't like to have my work interrupted," he said as if in explanation, and he closed and locked the door. "There," he said, and turning back he smiled, eyes cold and black, "Now, Mr. Westen," he said pleasantly. "Let us finish our conversation, shall we?"

And dread swept to Michael Westen's core.

_BN BN BN BN BN BN_

_**A/N**_: _Okay boys and girls! Not a lot of reviews, so... Let me know if you want me to take the time to continue. _

_Having said that, thanks to all that do take the time to review and encourage. This is my third fic. The first I removed because I was never happy with it. The second was Slipping, and now here we are with this one. :0)_


	6. Chapter 6: The Creepy Crawlies

_So I listened to your requests and have doubled the length of this chapter. Also, __Arlothia apparently __had a lapse of sanity and agreed to BETA for me. YAY! Thank you, Arlothia! As a result she caught a major lapse in continuity in this chapter (that I have now fixed) and also made some other tweaking and proper grammar suggestions. Unfortunately, though her advice was sound, I chose not to take __all__ of it. This means any glaring errors are mine alone. She tried her best. :0)_

**Chapter 6: The Creepy Crawlies**

"That's not an air field, that's a goat pasture!" Jesse exclaimed, sitting in the co-pilots seat and gripping the dash as Roscoe circled the plane low, making a practice run at what literally was indeed a goat pasture. A goat pasture surrounded by trees on three sides and a two hundred foot drop on the other. The animals bleated in terror, scattering in every direction as the plane buzzed closely overhead, arcing up and around again at the last possible minute. Hooting with glee, his decision made, Roscoe brought the plane about again and began his final approach.

"Hang on!" Jesse called back to Fi and Sam, grimacing as he quickly struggled with his own seat belt, clicking it in place just as the plane touched down on the dirt path masquerading as a runway. Goats ran for their lives as the plane bounced wildly along the road as Roscoe struggled to bring it to a halt. With the end of the field and probable death looming, they stopped mere feet from the edge of the drop. For a moment they simply sat in silence. Even Roscoe looking fairly astonished they'd made it. Jesse rested his hands on the dashboard, taking deep breaths and staring straight ahead. Then looking over at Roscoe, he suddenly whipped off his ball cap and smacked the old fellow with it. Staggering to his feet, Jesse opened the cockpit door and wobbled back to check on Sam and Fiona, Roscoe's amused chortles resounding behind him.

"What the heck was that?" Sam demanded, picking himself up off the floor.

"That," Jesse began, pointing back at the cockpit and Roscoe. "That was us almost dying," he said. "Let me tell you something. I'm done flying Air Roscoe. When we leave here, I'm the one flyin' the damn plane, not Popeye the Crazy Man.

"No arguments here," Fiona said, looking a bit unsteady herself.

"Me either," Sam grumbled. "But for now," he said, checking the clip in his gun, "let's go get Mikey," and swung the hatch door wide.

"Finally," Fiona answered.

Weapons of choice in hand, and packs already assembled, they climbed from the plane and set off across the field toward Herrera's compound.

Roscoe watched attentively from the cockpit as they left.

_BN BN BN BN BN BN_

Heavy fists pounded on the door. "Señor Herrera! Señor Herrera!" the soldier called from the other side, "A most urgent matter, Señor!"

The soldier waited nervously for a response. He'd drawn the short straw and had been given the unfortunate task of bringing Herrera bad news. He thought perhaps conveying urgency might insinuate his eagerness to help save Herrera, thereby gaining favor and hopefully sparing himself from the man's well-known wrath. "Señor Herrera!" he called out again.

Herrera's cheek twitched. He did not appreciate his work being interrupted. "Excuse me one moment," he said to Michael who simply stared back through half closed eyes.

Laying a bloodied scalpel down on his desk, Herrera walked back to the door, unlocked it, and opened it wide. "Yes, what is it?" he asked politely, but his eyes blazed, betraying his rage at being interrupted, his cheek twitching once again.

"Señor Herrera," the soldier swallowed hard, "It's Moaba," he said, mustering his courage. "We have word he is headed to the islands. He wants his drone." The soldier rushed the words out and then stood at attention, awaiting his fate.

Herrera nodded at the soldier and turning, strode back to Michael. "It seems our conversation must be delayed yet again," he sighed. "I'll leave you to your thoughts until I return," he said, and then suddenly turned back toward Michael again. "But first, a parting gift," he added, and held the cattle prod to Michael's chest one last time.

Michael cried out until at last Herrera released the trigger. Legs giving way from under him, he hung from his chains, gasping for breath.

Pleased, Herrera smiled brightly, then turned and walked from the room, dropping the cattle prod into the umbrella stand on his way out.

"This way, Señor," the soldier meekly directed. "We were concerned for your safety, Señor," he said as they walked. "My captain sent me to inform you and to bring you to casa segura …the safe house."

"Do you know where Moaba is at this time?"

"No, Señor. Only that he is on the way. We believe he will be here sometime in the next several hours."

"So not quite such an urgent matter after all," Herrera observed, and his cheek twitched again. "After you, soldado. Lead the way."

The soldier hesitated briefly. Suggesting urgency had obviously been a bad idea and he was now worried about turning his back to the man. Both he and his worries, however, were short lived. Herrera pulled out his pistol and nonchalantly shot him in the back.

Herrera frowned and put away his gun, still fuming. His anger was not fully appeased, but killing the idiot had at least helped a little. Herrera knew the man was only following orders, but the timing of the interruption had just _ruined_ his evening. Somebody simply had to die. Better this idiot than his second in command, who might still come in handy.

Stepping over the body, Herrera continued on toward the safe house. Since he'd already been interrupted, he may as well lend a few more minutes of his time before getting back to more important tasks. He had to admit to being a bit surprised at his second in command's apparent concern over Moaba. The man was, after all, just a glorified third world pirate. Certainly no one who would pose any real challenge to the well trained (and well paid) forces Herrera had under his command. Still, there must have been some concern on his 2IC's part to risk interrupting him.

This last train of thought caused Herrera's anger to flare once again. Michael Westen. This was his fault. All of it. The man's actions had caused a domino effect that seemed never ending. Herrera's best and most meticulously laid plans had been turned into a steaming pile. Michael Westen would pay for this. And Herrera was very good at exacting payment. He would have his pound of flesh. Literally.

_BN BN BN BN BN BN_

Meanwhile, the object of Herrera's wrath hung from his chains, alone except for the scores of flies that constantly buzzed about him, occasionally landing in his wounds to lay their eggs.

Drifting in and out of consciousness Michael tracked the time with the clock on the wall. Minutes turned into hours and still Herrera did not return. Terrible thirst consumed him and he longed for a drink. Still chained to the poles, his legs had ceased to support him hours before, forcing him to hang from arms long ago gone numb from the strain. Relief came only in the form of unconsciousness. And so he welcomed it, allowing it to swallow him up into blissful unawareness.

When he awoke he was still alone. By the clock on the wall he noticed more than eight hours had passed since last he checked. He also noticed something else. Newly hatched maggots now writhed within his wounds. In horror he fought desperately to rid himself of them, thrashing against his chains until exhaustion used up the last bits of his strength, and in quiet defeat, he once again let the darkness take him.

And then he heard it. A familiar voice! Someone was calling his name. It sounded like Sam! He felt a gentle cloth and cool water washing over him, and again the voice calling to him.

"Mikey! Come on, Buddy," he heard the voice plead. "Mike! MICHAEL!" the voice boomed this time, loud and in his face. And this time Michael opened his eyes.

"Sam?" he mouthed the name but no sound came.

"Hey there, brother," Sam grinned back at him, his face swimming into focus. "Hold on there, buddy. We almost got you down," Sam said as the last shackle was released and Michael fell forward, Sam catching him before he hit the floor.

He must have blacked out again because the next thing he knew he was stretched out on Herrera's plush couch, Andy hovering over him.

"These new wounds appear mostly superficial," Andy was saying, heaving a sigh of relief. "It seems my brother was called away before doing more serious harm. I believe Mr. Westen's current state is due mostly to his previous injuries," he added.

"Water," Michael croaked.

Sam held a canteen to Michael's lips. His friend gulped at it, wasting at least half in his frantic effort to swallow the precious liquid. "Easy there big fellow," Sam encouraged.

And then suddenly Michael remembered. Flailing wildly he wiped at his chest and arms with limbs that responded awkwardly at best. "Get them off," he gasped. "Get them _off_!" And he brushed at himself frantically, eyes wide and panicked.

"Whoa! Mikey!" Sam exclaimed, grabbing his friend's flailing arms. "They're gone! They're gone. We got them off of you, brother. They're gone. Take it easy."

Michael relaxed marginally, looking down at his arms and chest. His breathing slowed and he closed his eyes trying to gather himself.

"You okay, buddy?" Sam said, releasing his hold on Michael's arms.

Michael nodded rapidly and swallowed hard. He was still on the edge of losing it in every sense of the word.

"They're gone, brother," Sam assured. "Andy here washed them off while I was trying to figure a way to get you down."

"Where's Fi?" Michael asked finally, still shaken but more in control.

"She's fine. She was here earlier when we found you. She's ticked, Mike. Went a little crazy," Sam laughed nervously. "As soon as she was sure you were going to keep breathing she left to go after Herrera."

Michael closed his eyes and sighed.

"Yeah. She's in full on _Hell Hath No Fury_ mode, Mikey. You know what I mean."

"You should have stopped her, Sam," he said worriedly.

"Yeah, right. Good one," Sam feigned a chuckle. "Look. She'll be fine, Mike," he added, trying to reassure. "Plus Jesse went with her to, you know, stop her from blowing up the _whole_ island."

"The family… Did you get them out?" Michael asked, his voice weakening.

"They're safe, Mike," Sam said, giving him another drink from his canteen. "Now let's concentrate on you for a while, okay?"

"We need to get him back to my clinic," Andy interjected.

"I'm fine," Michael said.

"Uh, no offense, Mikey, but you're not fine."

"I just need a minute," he frowned.

"Uh huh, okay, Mike," Sam mumbled and glanced at Andy who shook his head.

"Have some more water," Sam offered, pushing the canteen toward him. "Hey, Andy, can I talk with you for a sec? Over _here_." And they walked several feet away from the couch. "Okay, give me the Readers Digest version," Sam said, his voice hushed.

"As I said before," Andy whispered, "Most of the new wounds are superficial. However, he had earlier internal bleeding which may or may not have begun again and the shrapnel wound is now deeply infected. I also suspect an earlier concussion," he added. "He shouldn't be moved."

"I can hear you, you know."

Both men snapped their head in Michael's direction. Sam rolled his eyes and sighed loudly.

"I'm a spy. What do you expect?" Michael responded. "Look, I'm _fine_, Sam," Michael insisted. "So, how did you find me?" he asked, attempting to change the subject.

"That's the weird thing. Getting into the compound wasn't all that hard. For some reason security seemed pretty light. Once we got in, we ran into Andy here. He knew where you were and got us the rest of the way. What we can't figure out is where everyone is going. It seems like everybody is getting the heck out of Dodge."

"My brother has a safe house about a quarter mile from here. If something is wrong, that's where he'd go," Andy said.

"Do you think he knows we're here?" Sam asked.

"I don't think so. Things started happening about twelve hours ago.

"Okay, not us then," Sam said with relief. "So while they're busy with …whatever, let's get moving."

Andy looked at Sam.

"Look, I know what you said, but the fact is, we need to get out of here," Sam said.

"I'm…" Michael began.

"Fine," Sam finished Michael's sentence. "Yeah, we know," and once again glanced at Andy, frowning.

"Take him to my clinic," Andy said. "This way."

"Uh, no offense, Anj," Sam said, stopping him. "But the clinic is the first place they'll look. We need to get out. And I mean all the way out."

Andy paused. "I agree," he said finally. "Follow me," he said, and leading the way, stepped through the doorway.

Sam helped Michael to his feet who gasped and gripped his side from the effort. "I'm sorry, Mike," Sam sympathized. "You okay?"

"Yep," Michael nodded rapidly. "Yeah."

Supporting his friend as much as possible, they staggered out the door and down the steps...


	7. Between Two Psycho's and A Hard Place

_**A/N: **__Okay, boys and girls. Here you go. Thank you once again to my shiny new Beta __Arlothia! And especially thank you to those of you who take the time to review. I see allll the hits but relatively few reviews. It's nice when someone finally pauses and posts something encouraging. Oh, and Beach Dove. LOL! Thank you for __your__ reviews. As usual (yes, I remember you from your comments on "Slipping") they are certainly ummm… spirited! :0)_

**Chapter Seven - Between Two Psycho's and A Hard Place**

Making their way as quickly as possible, Andy led the way while Sam half carried Michael down the steps and into the hallway. "Stop!" a gruff voice called out, halting them in their tracks. One of the beefy goons who had first interrogated Michael had just come 'round the corner in front of them. "What are you doing?" he challenged.

_Michael's hand drifted toward the pistol tucked in Sam's back holster._

"I'm taking this man to my clinic!" Andy said quickly, nodding toward Michael. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

"Under whose orders?" the goon barked.

"My brother's! Who else? I'm to keep him alive until he returns! My brother cannot question a dead man!"

"Who's he?" he demanded, jerking the muzzle of his gun toward Sam.

_Michael palmed Sam's pistol, still concealed behind him, clicking off the safety. _

"He's my new assistant. You killed the last one, remember?" Andy snapped.

Sam's eyes widened at this new bit of important information. "Oh great," he mumbled.

The guard's eyes narrowed as he looked the three over carefully, trying to decide what to do. He really didn't have time for this. And besides, it was obvious the prisoner wouldn't be going anywhere. "I will be reporting this to Herrera," he said finally, and stalked off down yet another hallway.

_Sighing, Michael dropped the gun back in Sam's holster, and slumped noticeably. The added strain of the last few moments had drained what was left of his reserves._

"Fine, fine," Andy call after the guard, and the trio continued down the hallway. "We don't have much time," he hissed to Sam. "We must hurry."

As they hurried by the clinic, Andy suddenly hesitated. "Wait," he said and dashed inside, returning momentarily with a small bag of supplies and a pair of shoes.

"Good call," Sam said, shoving the bag into his pack as Andy helped Michael on with the shoes.

"These are mine," Andy explained. "A little big but they should fit well enough."

Moving on again, they made their way straight for the nearest exit. A heavy exterior door, it opened to a grassy field edged by mangrove trees which eventually gave way to agave and palm. From there it led upward through dry forest and finally to the pasture where Roscoe waited with the plane. If they could reach the trees at least they'd have a chance. Unfortunately, between them and the mangroves a heavily armed soldier stood guard. Leaning against a tree, he tapped a cigarette from his pack, not noticing the trio peering through the crack in the doorway.

"We need a distraction," Sam said.

"I'll do it," Andy said. "I can't leave the compound, anyway."

"Why not?" Sam asked.

"Herrera will kill my family if I leave."

"Your family?" Sam asked, surprised. "Are they here?"

"No. They think I am dead. My brother brought me here under false pretenses two years ago and then arranged to have my death faked. He said if I tried to leave my family would be killed."

"Crap," exclaimed Sam. "I really hate that guy."

"You have no idea," Michael added, and they both looked over at him. Clothed only in a pair of filthy scrubs and the borrowed pair of ill-fitting shoes, he was battered, bruised, and covered in bloodied bandages.

"You're a mess, Mikey," Sam declared.

"Thanks," he answered and closed his eyes as he leaned against the wall.

Sam and Andy both exchanged worried looks.

"I will need a few minutes to get into place," Andy said.

"Andy," Michael began, intending to dissuade him.

But Andy cut him off, waving his hand. "Perhaps when this is over," he said to Michael, "my brother will no longer be a threat to anyone, yes?"

"Yes," Michael said quietly.

"Yes," Andy said sadly, understanding what that would mean. He nodded at them both. "Wait here," he said, and dashed off back down the hallway.

Easing Mike down to the floor, Sam propped his pack behind him. "You might as well try to rest while you can, Mike," Sam encouraged, offering him more water.

Michael took a swallow and then leaning his head back against the pack, closed his eyes.

Sam stood at the doorway, watching through the crack. Suddenly there was shouting from around the other side of the courtyard. The guard snapped his head in the direction of the commotion and moved toward the sound at a trot.

"That's our signal!" Sam exclaimed, turning to Michael. "Let's go," he said, reaching down to pull Michael to his feet.

Michael simply stared up at him. "Leave me," he said flatly.

"Yeah, right. Get up!" Sam ordered. "On your feet, soldier!"

"I'm not a soldier, I'm a spy," Michael said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Once a soldier, always a soldier," Sam shot back "And oh by the way, as a soldier, I outrank you," he added. "So get your lazy butt in gear!"

"Sam," Michael tried to reason. "You need to leave me and go help Fi and Jesse," he said. "I'm fine. I'll rest here for a while and then make it out on my own," he lied. "I'll meet you at the plane."

"Uh huh," Sam said dryly. "Look, Fi and Jesse can take care of themselves. Right now I'm getting you out of here," he said. "Now what part of 'I outrank you' didn't you understand? Move, soldier!"

Michael obeyed. Too hurt and exhausted to argue rank re ex-Navy Seals and former Army Rangers. "Sir, yes, sir!" he said with more than a hint of sarcasm, and reaching out his hand Sam grasped it and pulled him to his feet.

"That's what I'm talkin' about," Sam said, grinning. "Let's go."

Concentrating on just putting one foot in front of the other Michael staggered forward, Sam supporting at least half of his weight. Running as best they could across the grass, they broke through the outer tree line and passed into the forest.

Two hours later they'd made progress of sorts, but were still far from where they needed to be. Michael's face was a study in pain while Sam's that of grim determination.

With both of them exhausted and breathing heavily from their trek, Sam finally loosened his grip and eased Michael to the ground. "We'll rest here awhile," he said, checking his friends pulse and offering a sip of what was left of the water. "We're getting too old for this, Mikey," he scoffed, helping him with the water. Sam studied his friend's face. "I think I'll hit you with a little morphine," he decided out loud, and fumbling through his pack produced a pre-loaded syringe. "Once this kicks in I'll take another look at you. Then we'd better move out."

Michael barely nodded, doing his best just to stay conscious. He felt the pinch of the needle and warmth as the drug made its way into his bloodstream, making his head swim but also bringing sweet relief from at least some of the pain.

"I'm going to get you out of this, Mikey," he could dimly hear Sam saying as his friend worried over him, changing bandages on the worst of his wounds. "Ol' Sammy's going to pack you out of here if I have to carry you on my back," his murmurings continued. "You just hang in there. We're gonna get…" Somewhere in the middle of it all, Michael's world went blissfully dark.

Sam sat back on his heels and looked at his friend lying unconscious on the ground. Herrera would pay for this, he promised himself. Pushing his anger aside he stood up, and, wiping the sweat from his face, got back to focusing on the task at hand. Payback would have to wait. Right now his main priority had to be coming up with a plan that would get them both out of this mess alive. And time was not on their side. They either needed to get to higher ground and dig in, or continue trying to make it to the so called air field where Jessie and Fiona would hopefully be waiting. In any event, Herrera and his soldiers would be on their trail soon, if they weren't already.

"Time to go!" Michael heard the words before Sam's face swam into view. "Nap time over, buddy. We gotta move." Sam snapped his fingers several times in front of Michael's bruised face. "You with me, Mikey?"

"How long was I…" he stammered.

"Just a few minutes. I wish I could let you sleep, Mike, but we gotta go. You ready?"

Michael looked up at Sam dubiously.

"Alrighty, then!" Sam exclaimed and pulled Michael to his feet once more. "We can do this, brother. Just hang on to me and keep walking, Hercules."

Michael had spent the last three days of his life in a haze of pain and fever. Shackled to a pole or hanging from chains, he'd been tortured by a man who enjoyed his work far too much. He was asked nothing. His tormentor didn't want information, not that Michael would have talked anyway. No. Herrera wanted retribution; revenge, plain and simple. As a result Michael now sported multiple electrical burns, knife tracks, and cracked ribs, not to mention his original injury, a now seriously infected shrapnel wound, plus the gash on his head. From the beatings alone he was covered in bruises and, judging by the amount of man-made stars he'd seen over the past few days, a likely concussion. He was, as Sam had put it, a mess.

Suddenly the walkie in Sam's pack crackled to life. Sam had turned it on when they'd entered the forest. While he dared not contact Fi or Jesse lest he give their position away, he hoped they'd have an opportunity to reach out to him.

"Oh yeah," Sam beamed happily, and lowering Michael back to the ground, snatched up the radio.

"Sam, come in," he heard Jesse's voice whisper.

"Jesse," Sam exclaimed. "What's your status?"

_BN BN BN BN BN BN_

When Herrera left to check with his 2IC, he assumed it was going to be a short trip. He fully intended to get back within the hour to his new and favorite pass time, Michael Westen. Instead, he arrived to find his soldiers bustling about on full alert and his second in command hovering over a table with a map of the island.

"Montez," Herrera called out to his 2IC, crossing the room toward him. "What is it that is so urgent?" he asked. "I do not care to be sent for, nor do I care for my private time to be interrupted," he complained, his cheek twitching.

Montez looked up and sighed inwardly. "Señor Herrera," he said, straightening to greet the arrival of his sociopathic boss. It was not lost on him that the guard he'd sent to retrieve Herrera was absent. And he'd seen that twitch before. Usually right before Herrera killed someone… or several someones. _I don't make enough money for this_, Montez thought to himself. "Forgive me for the interruption," he said instead. "But I found it most important to bring you here. For your safety," he added.

"For my safety?" Herrera asked.

"Yes, Señor," Montez answered. "We have word Moaba is on the way. He is heavily armed and bringing many soldiers. He wants his drone."

Much like Herrera, Moaba did not take disappointment well. Upon learning his much anticipated drone would not be forthcoming, he had been seriously unhappy. Launching into what amounted to a psychotic tantrum, he decided he would have his drone, or if not, Herrera's head. He was well funded, well armed, and well and truly crazy. Gathering his forces, he headed for the Caymans to launch an all-out war on Herrera.

And team Westen had no idea they were about to be caught in the middle.


	8. Chapter 8: A New Plan?

**CHAPTER EIGHT – A New Plan?**

Fiona and Jesse watched from their perch atop a deserted mill near the outer edge of Herrera's compound. With their CIA provided scope they could clearly see the comings and goings of Herrera's men in and around what appeared to be a modest sized dwelling.

"Looks like they're getting ready for Armageddon down there," Jesse declared.

"We need to get in and find out what's happening," Fi answered.

"No no no no no. I know what you're thinking. You're not going in there."

"Funny, I don't recall having to ask your permission," she said, sorting through Jesse's pack as she talked, finally holding up a tiny bug and receiver. "I could really get to love these CIA toys," she said, tossing the receiver to Jesse. "I'll be right back."

A moment later she was walking down the middle of the street, pretending to be lost. "Excuse me! Excuse me! Can you help me, please?" she called out in a whining voice, flagging down a soldier who seemed more than a little surprised to find a tiny woman strolling through the compound. "I seem to have gotten myself a bit lost. Do you have a phone I could use?"

"What are you doing here?!"

"I was with the Flora and Fauna island tour group and I'm afraid I became so enthralled by an Amazona Caymanensis that I got separated from the group. If you'll just let me use your phone ..."

"No phone! Leave! _Now!_"

"But I'm lost! I don't know where I'm going! And I'm so tired. Couldn't you at least give me a ride back into town?"

"Follow the road back to town!" he snarled, grabbing her by the arm.

"Get your hands off me," she exclaimed, batting her fists at his chest while expertly dropping the tiny bug into his vest pocket."

He grabbed her wrists and, spinning her around, flung her toward the road. "Get out of here before I shoot you!"

Fiona gasped indignantly. "But it's miles back to town!" she protested.

"Go!" he roared, and pointed his rifle in her direction.

"The tour company will hear about his!" she exclaimed and walked off down the road. Rounding a bend she ducked into the brush and made her way back to Jesse.

"Amazona caymansis?" Jesse mocked.

"I'd like to see you come up with something better. Besides, he bought it, didn't he? And I'm guessing since you know what I said the bug is working?"

"Like a charm," Jesse grinned. "Now we just have to hope that our little helper likes to chat with his friends.

"Have you talked to Michael and Sam again? Have they made it back to the plane, yet?"

"No, I haven't bothered them. Remember, Sam was letting Michael rest for a while before they started off again."

She remembered. He'd also said Michael was in bad shape, not that she didn't already know that. She was there as they were trying to get him down from his chains. Since then she'd been on a mission with a single purpose. Kill Herrera. Now that mission had changed. Something else was going on. Something bigger and they needed to find out what. Because in the end, after all these years, it had dawned on her she was in fact one of the good guys. And for better or worse, the greater good was more important than her revenge. Michael had taught her that. The thought took her by surprise and she smiled a sad smile. Michael.

_BN BN BN BN BN BN_

"I don't have his drone," Herrera snapped. "Did you not send word? Perhaps you have forgotten that because of your earlier failure, we no longer have the man who can _build_ it," he seethed.

"Señor Herrera," Montez said, "remember it was I who warned of doing business with Moaba and counseled you to _wait_ until the drone was built before _offering_ it."

Herrera's cheek twitched.

"Luckily, my men are extremely loyal to me," Montez continued, choosing his words carefully, presenting a lightly veiled warning the soldiers allegiances lay with him, not Herrera. "They will withstand any attack Moaba has planned. These men would die for me," he added, his eyes narrowing, looking directly at Herrera.

Herrera stared back at his Second in Command for a moment, and then chuckled. "Well played, Montez," he said, and clapped him on the back.

Montez did not respond. He was oh so tired of working with this idiot. After this job he was swearing off psychopaths for good. No amount of money was worth this.

"My men will get you set up here in the safe house," Montez moved on. "While we believe Moaba and his troops are still several hours away, there has been some suspicious activity reported. It would be best for you to stay here until this is over."

_BN BN BN BN BN BN_

_When you're a spy, you get used to loss; of love and hopes gone by. You grieve and then let it go. You must. But each time you do, you lose a piece of yourself._

Fi stood in the doorway gazing out at the ocean. Glancing back over her shoulder, she smiled at him and then continued out the door. He rose to follow, watching as she walked down onto the sand, her hair blowing in the light ocean breeze. Smiling, she held her arms in the air and spun lazily in a circle, reveling in life, love, and the perfect day. Continuing through a picturesque white-washed wooden gate, she walked toward the shoreline, turning once again to face him, beckoning and smiling warmly. He smiled back and tried to follow only to find the gate closed and the lock rusted shut. Surprised, he looked to Fi and noticed dark clouds forming quickly in the sky beyond her. Almost immediately the wind picked up and the waves began to crash violently onto the shore. The sky grew dark and lightning streaked across, followed by an almost immediate and deafening clap of thunder.

The smile left Fiona's lips and she turned to face the now violent surf. Whirling back toward Michael, she reached out to him, a mix of fear and sadness on her face. He struggled to open the gate, but it held fast. Shaking it violently he finally gave up and opted to simply climb over. But the gate grew before his eyes, changing and morphing into thick iron bars that now towered high above him. Unable to go over, he tried to go around, but an iron fence now accompanied the gate and stretched as far as the eye could see in either direction. Peering through the bars he could still see Fi. Her hair was blowing madly in the wind while sand peppered her body as she tried to shield her face and eyes from the worst of it. More lightning flashed and the thunder rolled. _"Michael!"_ she screamed as the wind pushed her toward the roiling sea and crashing waves. He reached helplessly for her through the bars…

_"FI!" _

"Mike! Wake up!" Sam shook Michael's shoulder.

Jerking awake, Michael began to sit up, but instead fell into himself, gasping, and sank back.

"Hey, take it easy," Sam chastised. "You were sort of out of it back there. You okay?"

"Yeah," Michael answered, anything but okay. The last thing he remembered other than his nightmare was Jesse making radio contact. "Did you talk to Jesse?"

"Yeah, Mike."

"Is he with Fi?" he asked, trying once again to sit up. "Is she okay? Are they okay?"

"Take a breath," Sam said, helping his friend sit up. "Yeah, Mike. She's okay. They both are. Fi's still hell bent on getting Herrera, though, and I gotta say, this is one time I agree with her. This guy has to be stopped before he hurts anyone else. Something else is up, though. They think they should lay low until they figure it out. The new plan is, uh," he hesitated, looking away.

"What's the new plan, Sam?"

"The new plan is I get you out of here and then come back to help," Sam rushed the words out. "Look, Mike, I know what you're going to say."

"No."

"Right. That's what I knew you were going to say. But hear me out," he began again.

"No."

"Alrighty then," Sam sighed. Grabbing his pack he was about to help Michael to his feet when they both heard someone coming down the trail. Hauling Michael up, Sam half carried, half drug him deeper into the brush, both of them falling behind a downed tree just as that someone came into view.

_**A/N**__ Thanks for the kind words. Please consider leaving a review. If you want a sneak peak at the next chapter, just let me know. And thank you to my beta Arlothia. She tries hard to help me but sometimes I'm just stubborn. So. All mistakes belong to me._


	9. Chapter 9: Rescue Roscoe

**Chapter Nine: Rescue Roscoe**

"I almost shot you, you old coot!" Sam exclaimed, standing up. "I thought I told you to stay with the plane!"

Roscoe stood before him, grinning back; unrepentant delight written across his face.

Sighing, Sam shook his head in exasperation and turned his attention back to Michael. "Mike. You alright?"

"Yeah," he hissed, hugging his midsection and trying to catch his breath.

Roscoe stared past Sam at Michael. "Roscoe come to help. Roscoe listening," he said, tapping his radio. "Roscoe help!" he said, and held his old back pack aloft.

"Look old timer," Sam began, softening his tone. "I don't want to hurt your feelings or anything, but I have enough problems right now. I know you mean well, but I need to get my friend here back to the plane. We don't need your help."

Roscoe shook his head in disagreement. "You need Roscoe's help," he said assertively. "Like before."

"Like before?" Mike and Sam said the words at the same time.

"Bread and Butter!" Roscoe exclaimed and clapped his knee, laughing.

Mike's brow knit. "What?"

"It's an old expre… Never mind!" Sam exclaimed. "Roscoe, what do you mean, 'like before'?"

"Roscoe take care of Michael Westen, just like Roscoe take care of _you_ long time ago," he said, jabbing a finger into Sam's chest. "Maybe you no remember Roscoe, but Roscoe remember you! Roscoe have _two_ good eyes back then.

Sam stared at him for a moment as realization dawned. Desert Storm. Could it be that this was the man who had saved him some twenty odd years ago? The combat medic who'd crawled through hell itself, reached and stabilized him, and then covered Sam with his own body to shield him from another round of incoming? Sam had often wondered what became of the medic he'd never gotten a chance to thank. And now, here he was, standing before him.

Roscoe grinned at him. "You remember," he said.

"Yes. Yes, I do," Sam said soberly. "What happened to you? By the time I knew what was going on again, you'd disappeared. Where'd you go, man?"

"Roscoe had enough war," he said simply. "Roscoe had enough dying."

"The eye," Sam said, nodding at Roscoe. "That day? Helping me?"

Roscoe shrugged. "Roscoe still have other eye. I see you still have chin!" And his good eye twinkled in merriment at his little joke.

"My God, man," Sam stammered, and he shook Roscoe's hand with both of his. "I'm here today because of you."

"Sam, what's going on," Michael interrupted.

"Roscoe come to help," Roscoe answered, and made his way over to him. Putting his pack down, he looked at Michael. "Don't worry. Roscoe not really crazy," he said in a sincere and kind voice, looking Michael in the eye. "You be okay. I take care of you," he said, digging through his pack and pulling out supplies.

"He knows what he's doing, Mike. Let him take a look."

As Roscoe checked Michael's vitals and did a quick assessment of his wounds, Sam gave a brief account of their original meeting on the battlefield, and how Roscoe had save his life.

By the time Sam was done explaining, Roscoe had finished his cursory exam. He looked up at Sam, concern on his face. "We need to get friend back to plane," he said quietly. "Roscoe have more supplies there."

**_BN BN BN BN BN BN_**

Fi and Jesse lay atop the mill's roof, listening to chatter on the bug left in the pocket of Fi's new found friend. Most of what came through was grumblings about the food, the heat, and their general all around disdain and fear of Herrera. But sprinkled in was news of Moaba's imminent arrival.

_~Moaba and his army will be here by morning.~_

_~I don't understand this man. Moaba knows Herrera has no drone!~_

_~Moaba no longer wants the drone, my friend. Moaba wants Herrera.~_

"Get in line," Fi hissed. "He can have him after me. _If _there's anything left," she added.

"Did he just say army?" Jesse asked.

Fi shrugged.

"Because if they're showing up with an actual army, we need to get the heck out of Dodge. Like, you know. _Now_," Jesse said.

_~I'm not staying here to die for the likes of Herrera. Let Moaba have him!~_

_~Herrera would kill you for saying that.~_

_~If we leave now. No pay.~_

_~We fight for Montez. Not Herrera.~_

_~And money. I fight for money.~_

"Doesn't this strike you as odd?" Fi asked.

"That I'm sitting on some roof in the Cayman's waiting for a psychopath's army to show up? Ah, no, not really. 'Cause, you know, this is just a normal days work with you people…"

"What?"

"Nothing. Look. We need to get going. Now."

"Really," Fi began again. "Doesn't it strike you as odd Herrera is sticking around? He knows this guy and his army are coming for him, yet he chooses to just sit here and …wait for them? Why doesn't he just head for his plane?"

**_BN BN BN BN BN BN_**

Herrera sat sipping his coffee at the safe house, growing more and more impatient. _This is stupid, _he fumed._ I have things to do. _His thoughts were interrupted by one of his guards.

"Señor Herrera, I thought it important you should know your brother has removed the prisoner from your … office. He is taking him back to his clinic," the guard informed, neglecting to mention the additional presence of the doctors new 'assistant.'

"Is that so?"

"Si, Señor Herrera. Dr. Andres said it was with your permission. Still, I thought it best I report this to you."

"Thank you. You may return to your duties."

The soldier tipped his head, and backed out of the room.

So. It seemed his brother Andres had decided to once again come to Michael Westen's aid. Well, that was fine. No sense in wasting his prize. His brother could get Westen ready for his return.

The thought his prisoner might attempt escape fleetingly crossed Herrera's mind, but he was secure in the knowledge that in the state he'd left him, Westen was going nowhere. And for that matter, neither was his brother.

**_BN BN BN BN BN BN_**

"Tired," Michael mumbled.

"I know you are, buddy, but we have to keep going. Just a little bit farther," Sam encouraged, just as Michael collapsed. "Mike!"

Roscoe ran forward. Bending over Michael, he checked his pulse.

"He's burning up," Sam said worriedly.

"Yes," Roscoe agreed, once again riffling through his old pack until producing a package of Advil. Lightly tapping Michael's face until his eyes fluttered open, he placed the pills in his mouth. "Swallow," he instructed as he held a canteen to his lips.

Michael choked and sputtered, barely getting them down. "Sam," Michael said. "Sam, you have to save her. I can't. I can't reach her. Sam!" He gripped Sam's arm, his eyes wide with fear and despair. "Sam!" he all but sobbed. "I'm losing her…"

"I've got her, Mikey. Don't worry. She's safe."

"_Fi!" _he screamed, and slumped into unconsciousness.

"We have to get him to the plane," Roscoe said.

"Then let's go," Sam said resolutely, and pulling Michael into a fireman's carry, staggered a bit, righted himself, and then determinedly started off toward the plane. _When this was over Fi wasn't the only one that was going to make Herrera pay,_ Sam thought. _What that monster had done to Michael, put him through… He was going to kill this man_. And Sam let his anger fuel his strength as he continued to put one foot in front of the other, carrying his best friend up the trail and toward the plane.

_**A/N:**_ Please consider reviewing. If you'd like a sneak peak of the next chapter just let me know. Thank you again to my awesome BETA Arlothia who I listen to 75% of the time. LOLOL! In other words, all mistakes are mine, folks.


	10. Chapter 10: Tic-Tic-Tic

**Chapter 10 – Tic-Tic -Tic**

With his side arm in hand and Michael in a fireman's carry, Sam doggedly made his way up the broken trail and toward the plane. Roscoe followed behind with the packs and Sam's rifle. Within forty minutes the plane was in sight. After a cursory scan, they cautiously crossed the clearing and made their way to the plane. With the last reserves of his strength, Sam climbed the ladder into the craft and lay Michael gently on the floor. Roscoe scrambled in behind and immediately set to work.

Making his way over to one of the seats, Sam all but collapsed into it. Completely spent, he leaned forward to catch his breath, all the while watching as Roscoe worked on Mike. Carrying his friend that long - and uphill - had pushed him to his limits. The last ten minutes or so he'd become mechanical in his movements, simply trying to put one foot in front of the other. Not thinking, just moving. By the time he lay Michael down he was shaking badly and struggling for breath. As he sat along the wall of the plane keeping vigil as Roscoe worked, it hit home that while he often kidded about it, he truly was no longer a young man. _Well that just sucks_, he thought. But then smiled. _He'd still carried his friend up the side of a frickin' mountain. Not bad for an old man._ And he smiled anew.

_**BN BN BN BN BN BN**_

By the time Michael woke again he was receiving fluids and antibiotics through an iv and the man Sam had referred to as Roscoe was cleaning and disinfecting his wounds. He grimaced from the pain but said nothing, simply watching as the curious stranger tended him.

"Hey there, Mikey," Sam said, noticing he was awake. Walking over he kneeled beside his friend, "How you doing?"

"Fine," Michael answered and then looked at Sam closely. "Did you carry me?"

"Just a little ways."

Roscoe glanced up at Sam. _That had been a long and hard 'little ways,'_ he thought, but remained silent, and continued on with his task.

"Wow," Michael said appreciatively.

"Didn't think ol' Sammy had it in him, huh?" He flexed his muscles for Michael. "Look at that! Guns of steel I tell ya!"

Michael smiled at Sam but then flinched sharply as Roscoe's ministrations reached the infected shrapnel wound.

"Sorry," Roscoe responded sympathetically. "Roscoe need to take a look."

Carefully he helped Michael roll to his side. Fresh blood mixed with puss and fluid trickled from the wound. Roscoe locked eyes with Sam. Easing Michael onto his back again, Roscoe spoke soberly. "This gonna hurt," he said, and began to palpate Michael's upper abdomen.

Michael gasped in pain and Sam gripped his shoulders to steady him. "Easy, Mike."

Roscoe stopped, and taking Sam's hand, placed it on Michael's side. "Here," he said.

Sam felt a distinct lump. "Crap. Mike, you still got a piece of shrapnel in you!"

"Not far under skin," Roscoe said. "Another half inch and would have gone through. I go in from here. Give some procaine. You be okay. Have out in no time," he said kindly to Michael, and set about prepping for the surgery. Disinfecting his hands once more, he laid out surgical tools on a sterile pad.

Seeing the tools suddenly sent Michael's mind tumbling back to Herrera's "office." He looked around wildly trying to get a grip.

"You okay, Mikey?"

He was far from okay, but nodded marginally and tried to concentrate on Sam's presence.

"Here we go," Roscoe said.

Michael stared straight ahead, trying his best to stay in the here and now. He shivered lightly as Roscoe swabbed his side with antiseptic and injected him with the numbing procaine. Biting his lip, Michael tried to push away his fear, angry with himself. _This was nothing_, he told himself, but a tear trickled from the side of his eye betraying him. Impulsively he reached roughly for Sam's hand, who caught it and held on as Roscoe finished with the procaine and picked up the scalpel.

"Hey, Mikey. It's okay, brother. You're gonna be alright," Sam tried to sooth.

But catching site of the knife propelled Michael's thoughts once again to Herrera's chamber. Swallowing hard, he gripped Sam's hand tighter. He'd had enough. He'd been through too much. Survived it, stood up to it, and endured it. But now he was done. The site of the scalpel in Roscoe's hand sent him to the edge. Instead of Roscoe he saw Herrera. Grinning. Only Sam's presence held him on this side of sanity.

"I can't," he gasped back a sob, and raw fear shown in his eyes.

"Mikey, this has to be done," Sam said quietly. "I don't know what Herrera did to you, but I've a pretty good idea. But you're with us now. I got you, Mike. We can do this."

"Ready," Roscoe said.

"Ready?" Sam looked down at Michael.

Another tear trickled from the corner of his eye and grimacing, he nodded his head rapidly and gripped Sam's hand all the harder.

"Then let's do this thing," Sam said. "Before I don't have a hand left," he added, and Michael almost smiled.

"Here we go," Roscoe said, and made the incision. Within minutes it was over. A small piece of bloody metal lay on the ground as Roscoe made short work of stitching Michael's side.

Michael lay breathing heavily but more relaxed. The procaine had done its job and he'd truly felt not much of anything other than a tugging sensation.

Sam fussed over him, wiping his face with a cool cloth while chattering incessantly about how much girls loved scars, the current record of the Miami Dolphins, and size of the last fish he caught.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, Michael fell asleep.

_**BN BN BN BN BN BN**_

"This doesn't add up. I'm going back down there."

"Have you lost your mind?"

"Look, we have a bug on them. Most of Herrera's men are in what looks like their safe house. I just want to go down and check out the main compound. See what I can see. You can listen in from here," Fi said, producing a pair of earpieces and slipping one on. She handed the other to Jesse. "If something goes wrong that I can't handle, come and get me."

"Look, I'm coming with you. I can't watch your back from here!"

"Somebody has to keep an eye on the safe house and listen for intel. I'll be fine. It's not like I've never broken into a heavily armed compound before. I'll be right back," she said, clicking on her comlink.

And before he could protest further she was gone. He watched her as she crossed the street in front of the mill, staying in the shadows as she made her way closer to the main compound. "Let me know when it's clear," she whispered.

"Roger that," Jesse answered, watching her through his scope. There were few guards and it was only a matter of moments before she had a clear path to the building.

"Go," he said.

Fi sprinted across the manicured grounds to an outside corner door and began working on the lock.

"Thirty seconds," Jesse's voice came over the link, seeing the guard beginning his trek back. "Twenty."

Fi continued to work on the lock.

"Ten."

The mechanism was giving her more trouble than she counted on.

Fi…"

"Almost…" she said just as the pick broke off in the lock.

"_FI! Get out!"_

_**A/N:**__Please consider reviewing. If you'd like a sneak peak of the next chapter just let me know. Thank you again to my awesome BETA Arlothia who I listen to 75% of the time. In other words, all mistakes are mine, folks. THANK YOU especially to those of you who take the time to log in and review. _


	11. Chapter 11: Betrayal

**Chapter Eleven - Betrayal**

The door suddenly swung open and a hand snatched Fiona inside just as the guard rounded the corner. It clicked silently shut as he passed by, the broken pick protruding from the lock gone unnoticed.

Watching from the rooftop, Jessie gasped in relief and removed his finger from the trigger of his rifle, clicking the safety back on. Using the crook of his arm he wiped the sweat from his face. Another nanno second and he'd have pulled the trigger, setting off the entire compound and no doubt ending with a lot of dead bodies, including their own. It had been close. But "close" was pretty much the norm since he joined team Westen. He wondered absently how long his luck would hold out hanging around these people. And then almost at the same time knew he'd have it no other way. They were family. His family. He would die for them, and they for him. And though they made up an odd representation, all were true patriots. What more could he ask for?

_**BN BN BN BN BN BN**_

The hand that snatched Fi into the building was now clamped tightly over her mouth. Andy held his other hand up, a finger to his lips. "Shhhh…" he whispered, and nodded toward the sound of footsteps in the hallway.

Finally the sound faded, "Follow me," he whispered and turning a corner slipped into a storage room. "My office is bugged," he explained.

"What's happening? Why are you back here?"

"Something is going on," Fiona began.

"Yes, Moaba…"

"Yes, I know, but something else is up. Something isn't right. Why would Herrera stick around for the battle? Why not get in his plane and simply leave until it's over?"

Andy stared at her. "Good question," he said. "I don't know."

"Can someone tell me what's going on in there?" Fiona's comlink crackled to life. It was Jesse. "I hope you know I just aged ten years. I'm assuming whoever just pulled you into the building is on our side?"

"I'm fine, Jesse. Yes, I'm with Andy. Anything to report on your end?"

"No, nothing new. Things are pretty quiet. Unless you count my heart thumping out of my chest."

"I'm going to check out Herrera's office."

"Oh, good," Jesse sighed and rolled his eyes.

_BN BN BN BN BN BN_

Michael awoke to the sound of low voices.

"Do you think you can get him back on your own?" he heard Sam ask.

"Roscoe get friend out, but don't think good idea to leave."

"Look, just get him somewhere safe and then come back for us."

"Once Roscoe take off, not sure _can_ get back."

"I'm not going anywhere," Michael interrupted.

"Oh, hey, Mike. You're awake."

"I'm not leaving," Michael stared evenly at Sam. "Go help Fiona and Jesse."

"Look, Mike. I can't leave you up here on this mountain. You need to get the heck out of Dodge. I'll take care of Fiona and Jesse, but you need to leave."

"We already talked about this. I'm not leaving, Sam."

"No, I talked about it. You only said, 'No.'"

"And my answer hasn't changed. I'm not going anywhere."

"Fiona is gonna kick my butt."

"I'll kick your butt. And I can do a lot more damage than Fiona."

"Not sure about that, Mikey."

"Fair enough, but I'm not leaving."

_**BN BN BN BN BN BN**_

Fiona and Andy entered Herrera's office and bolted the door behind them. She shuddered lightly and wrinkled her nose as she glanced about the room. Knowing what Michael had endured here made her heart catch in her throat. She made a concerted effort not to look at the chains which had held him. Turning her full attention to the office portion of the room she began a methodical search for something that would explain Herrera's seemingly lackadaisical attitude in the face of an entire army on their way to kill him.

Meanwhile Andy stood at the door, watching through the small barred window for any sign of approaching guards. If they were discovered in here there'd be no talking their way out. They'd be dead by morning or likely well before. "Fiona, you must hurry," he urged, looking over his shoulder and catching sight of his brother's chamber of horrors. He cringed inwardly. _How many of his 'patients' had seen this place?_ He knew all too well. Shaking his head he clenched his fist and slammed in into the side of the wall. "I should have stopped this," he said.

"And then you'd be dead, too," Fiona responded. "But now you have your chance. We have our chance. We're going to stop this monster once and for all. …What's this?" she said almost to herself, as her fingers met with a loose piece of wood. Sliding a nail and then a finger under it she lifted open a false bottom to Herrera's desk drawer. Inside the narrow compartment was a file. She pulled it out carefully, checking for triggers or alarms as she slowly retrieved it from its hiding space. Finally out, she opened it before her and gasped at what she saw.

Fiona quickly pulled out her cell phone and laying the file open on the desk began taking pictures. Checking the screen of the first shot she tried again, unhappy with the clarity. Trying again she had the same results. "The hell with this," she mumbled, and putting away her phone simply tucked the file under her belt, pulling her shirt down over it. "Let's go," she said to Andy who nodded with relief. Touching her comlink, "Jesse, can you patch me through to Sam and listen in?"

"Give me a minute," Jesse's voice came back. Then, "Sam, you there?"

"I'm here. Mike's listening, too."

"I don't have a lot of time," Fiona began, ducking back into the storage room where Andy had first pulled her. "Herrera and Card are working together. Michael, Card wanted us to fail. He betrayed you. He betrayed us all."

Jesse and Sam's "What?" came simultaneously.

"I have a file," she said, pulling it out again. "It's all here in my hands," Fiona explained. "They're working _together_. Card gave Hererra Tanaka's location. It's all right here. And more."

"Okay, that doesn't make any sense," Sam continued. "Card sent us down here to get Tanaka out so Herrera wouldn't get the drone," Sam said.

"He set us up," Michael said slowly. "We weren't meant to make it out with the hostage."

"So… Card wanted Herrera to have the drone to sell to Moaba," Sam said, cluing in. "The rendition op was never supposed to succeed. What? He and Herrera were going to split the money?"

"Makes sense," Jesse said. "I mean, everyone involved would be dead. No one would know..."

"Michael," Fiona gasped suddenly, interrupting, as she leaned closer, pausing over a page in the file. "Michael! He was part of Management! It's all here. Not just proof he was working with Herrera, but direct references to Management. He's one of them, Michael."

_When you're a spy, you cling to the glorious madness of believing the things you do, the sacrifices you make will someday make a difference. But when you are betrayed, when one of the corner stones of what little you have left in life that's still perceived as true topples, there is little to do but fall back on your training. Fall back and believe - believe there are still some things that are real, that are true, and that are still worth fighting for. _

Closing the file carefully Fi spoke again into the com, "Michael, what are we going to do? Mi…"

There was a dull noise and her voice was suddenly cut off.

_**A/N: First of all… **__**THANK YOU for reviewing. If you'd like a sneak peak of the next chapter just let me know. **_

_**Okay, I got some 'splainin' to do! LOL! Sooooorrry for the long delay re this next chapter. There were the holidays and company and holidays and more company and then life happened and, well, you know the story. In any event, I'm back and we're getting close to either the middle or the end! LOL! I haven't decided. **_

_**In any event, thank you once again to my long suffering beta Arlothia who likely thought I fell off the earth. She tries SO HARD to help me make this mess coherent. But I don't always listen. This means all mistakes are mine. She tried. **_


	12. Chapter 12: Ut-Oh

**Chapter Twelve – Ut-oh**

"Michael, what are we going to do? Mi…"

Fiona's words were cut short as she felt the barrel of a pistol press against the back of her skull.

"Fi?" Sam spoke into the radio. "Fiona, say again. Jesse, did you copy?

"Negative."

Michael struggled to a sitting position and grabbed the radio from Sam, depressing the talk button. "Fiona."

~silence~

"Fiona, come in."

~silence~

Michael gripped the radio, looking around wildly in helpless alarm. Hitting the button again, he tried to control the fear in his voice, "Jesse, what's going on?"

"I don't know, Mike. Her radio went dead. It might be nothing," he added hopefully. "I'm going to go check it out."

Michael fell back onto his elbows, unable to drive thoughts of Fiona captured by Herrera from his mind. "Sam," he choked, looking desperately at his friend.

"Already on it, Brother. You just take it easy. Jesse and I will get her back."

"Sam, if Herrera has her…" his words trailed off.

"We don't know that."

Michael looked at him somberly. They both knew the truth.

"Look, Fiona can take care of herself. Herrera's never met a Glenanne before. He's likely in bigger trouble than she is right now," Sam joked. But it was a weak attempt at masking what they both feared. If Herrera had Fiona she was in grave and terrible danger. Even more so than Michael had been, and they both knew it. "I won't come back without her, Mikey," Sam said quietly. "That's a promise."

Michael nodded and sunk back onto his makeshift cot, beads of perspiration on his forehead. This was agony of a different kind. Too weak to help, all he could do was trust his friends. "Hurry," he said under his breath as he anxiously watched Sam grab his pack and exit the plane.

_**BN BN BN BN BN BN**_

As Sam made his way back down the mountain, Jesse watched the guard once again round the corner of the building. Timing it as best he could, and praying the guard stuck to his usual routine, Jesse sprinted to the door. Grabbing the broken and still protruding pick, he used it as a handle to open the door, jerking it from the lock as he let the door close quietly behind him. He blinked as he entered the darkness of the hallway, trying to adjust to the dim lighting, his ears instantly picking up voices – angry voices - coming from not very far away.

Edging his way down the hallway he crept slowly forward toward what could only be trouble. He didn't have to go far before he saw a heavily armed guard exiting a side room. Fortunately the guard turned to the right, away from his position. Fiona and Andy followed closely behind.

Fiona, unlike the guard, spotted Jesse at once. Pretending to stumble, she quickly signaled the presence of the guard behind her.

Jesse slunk back into the shadows just as the other guard emerged.

"Get up!" he demanded, pointing his gun at Fiona.

Andy grabbed Fiona by the arm and helped her to her feet, glaring at the guard.

"Keep moving!" he growled, shoving Fiona forward again with the muzzle of his gun. "Try anything, and I will kill you both!"

Jesse watched helplessly as Fiona and Andy were lead away and out another exit. He would have been able to pick off the rear guard, but not the lead. Not in this narrow hallway. Andy and Fiona would have been sitting ducks and dead in seconds. Sighing with frustration, he crept forward rapidly and ducked into the room they'd just exited, immediately spying what appeared to be a folder on the floor. "Fiona," he grinned. Partway under the desk, she had somehow managed to leave the file - the hard gotten evidence of Card's unholy alliance with Management. Not to mention proof Card was working with Herrera.

Tucking the file in the back of his pants, he headed back down the hallway to what was becoming Team Westen's own private doorway. Jesse opened it a crack and watched as the two guards holding Andy and Fiona confronted the courtyard guard. Though he couldn't hear the exchange, it didn't take a genius to understand what was being said. While they were busy, he eased the door open and wind sprinted across the clearing. Fiona watched him as he went. The arguing guards noticing nothing. Quickly reaching the trees he made his way back to his perch atop the mill roof, almost instantly spying Sam double timing it through the trees. Signaling to him, he headed back down into the mill, and opened the door to let Sam inside.

"They have Fiona," Jesse explained as they made their way back to the roof. "And the doctor dude – Andy. They're taking them both to Herrera," he added ominously.

"We'll get 'em back," Sam scowled in bitter determination. "What's that?" he asked, nodding at the file.

"Fiona left it. It's what she found in Herrera's office. If there was ever a smoking gun, this is it. If we can get this to the right people…"

"We will," he said, paging through the file and whistling. "Wow."

"Yeah. Wow."

"Mike needs to marry that girl," Sam said under his breath, then looking at Jesse, "Did I say that out loud?" he asked.

Jesse grinned.

"Anyway, right now we need to put this someplace safe and come back for it," Sam said, looking around. Glancing up he asked suddenly, "How's your throwing arm?"

Jesse arched an eyebrow.

Putting the file in a plastic bag from his pack, Sam retrieved one of the many available mill sacks he'd seen stacked downstairs. Placing the file inside he tied the sack in the middle, then adding a counterweight rock, tied it once again on the end. The sack now resembled a makeshift saddle bag, knotted in the middle and weighted more or less equally on each side. "You think you can hit that branch there?" he asked, handing Jesse the sack and pointing to a nearby palm.

Jesse glanced up. The tree towered several feet higher than the rooftop and was even further away. Thick with fronds, it showed little promise of providing a landing site for the sack.

"You're kidding, right?"

"Look, I'd do it, but I just lugged Mike up the mountain. My arm's killing me."

"Riiiiiight."

"Look, a kid could do it. Just throw it up there! It's the best place to hide it. No one will think to look in a tree."

Jesse glanced at the branch again. _Just throw it up there_, he grumbled under his breath, and began circling the bag over his head as if it were a lasso.

"Come on! Stop playing cowboy and just throw the thing," Sam chided.

Shooting Sam a withering look, Jesse made one last circle above his head, aimed as best he could, and flung the bag up and out. By some complete miracle, it wrapped itself snugly around a branch, knocking a coconut down in the process. No one was more shocked than Jesse. Masking his surprise, he nodded in satisfaction. "Yippee ki-yay," he deadpanned. Then added, because, really, cowboy speak just wasn't his thing, "Who's the man?"

"I'll let you know when you climb up and get it back down once this is all over," Sam grinned.

_**BN BN BN BN BN BN**_

Fiona knew they'd come. They were her team. _No_, she corrected herself. They were her family. They had each other's backs and knew each other's every move as if it were their own. She had left the file _knowing_ they would find it, just like she _knew_ they would come for her. When she felt the muzzle of the gun to her head she'd dropped the file to the floor, shoving it under the desk with her foot as she turned to face her captor. The poorly trained guard had never even noticed; no doubt too excited about his prize.

And that prize was just about to be delivered. The guards marched them up to the safe house and were stopped at the entrance by another soldier. Andy recognized him as someone he'd treated recently in his clinic.

"Let us through," the lead guard demanded. "We have prisoners for Señor Herrera."

The soldier at the door was confused and a bit annoyed. This was Dr. Andres, brother to Herrera. But unlike his brother, Dr. Andy was as mild mannered and kind as the day was long, and much liked by all. The other prisoner appeared to be the tiny woman who'd stumbled into the compound a few days earlier. Neither of these individuals seemed to represent any kind of real threat, and certainly not one that would warrant two armed guards. In fact it seemed to him the biggest danger was to dare interrupt Herrera. "Prisoners?" the soldier questioned.

"Si," Andy sighed, pretending to humor his captors. "It seems our companions believe I am an enemy they must protect my brother from." And he rolled his eyes for effect. "As I tried to explain to our friends here, Sophie," he said, nodding toward Fiona, "is the girlfriend of my new assistant. This is all just a big misunderstanding."

"We shall let Señor Herrera decide," the guard growled in answer. "Let us pass, Soldado!" he ordered. "Stand aside!"

The soldier suddenly remembered his place and clicking his heels saluted his superior officer. Opening the door he stepped aside.

Andy and Fiona entered into the room, the guards close behind. There were several soldiers milling about, who immediately shot appreciative glances toward Fiona.

In the far corner of the room sat Herrera behind a huge desk. "What have we here?" he smiled, looking up and seemingly genuinely delighted.

The guards were instantly relieved. Perhaps they would not die today. Perhaps they would even be rewarded.

"What. Have. We. Here," Herrera repeated, pausing after each word as he stepped out from behind his desk, pulling out his side arm as he came, his eyes fully on Fiona.

The guards marched her forward, shoving her toward Herrera who smiled anew and took a step closer.

"We caught her in the compound with Dr. Andres. She was speaking to someone, Señor," the guard said, "On this," he added, showing her radio to Herrera.

"I see," Herrera smirked, waving off the guards who instantly moved away.

"What is your name?" he asked, and he began circling her in his shark like way.

Fiona said nothing.

He paused in front of her, gun still in hand. "No matter," he purred. Keeping the gun trained on her, he reached out with his other hand. Taking a length of her hair he breathed in its fragrance, locking eyes with her. "No matter," he said again. "I have my own, more entertaining ways of finding out. Don't I, Brother?" he asked, glancing at Andy.

It was the opportunity Fiona had been waiting for. Deftly shoving the gun barrel aside, she instantly kneed Herrera to the groin. Then linking her hands, turned sideways and elbowed him to the face. He dropped like a stone. And now she had his gun. "Get back or I kill him!" she ordered.

_**BN BN BN BN BN BN**_

**A/N:** _Thank you to those of you who continue to hang in there on this story. It WILL be completed. Thanks so much for all the kind reviews. Let me know if you'd like a sneak peak of the next chapter._

_Thank you as always to my BETA, Arlothia. We are both so very, very busy. Between the two of us it's a wonder we ever get this story updated. But we plug along and I PROMISE I do know where this is going. Next chapter was a ton of fun to write as Fiona is… well… you'll just have to wait and see. _


	13. Chapter Thirteen: Hell Hath No Fury

**Chapter 13 – Hell Hath No Fury**

Herrera lay sprawled on the floor, struggling to regain his senses.

"Get up!" Fiona ordered, wasting no pity. "On your feet!" she growled and kicked him hard in the ribs.

Herrera gasped and rolled to his side, holding an arm aloft in submissive surrender.

_Pathetic coward, _she thought, glaring at him, and kicked him again. "Up! Now!" she snarled.

Meanwhile, Herrera's guards had no idea what to do. A tiny little crazy woman had just disarmed their boss and beat the bejeebers out of him. Weapons drawn, they stood there, pondering their options. Simply shooting the woman might result in Herrera's death. And as much as they despised and feared Herrera, they equally didn't want to lose their paycheck.

Suddenly from amongst the room full of rebels a single shot rang out. The gun flew from Fiona's hand and she gripped her wrist in pain from the force of it. Spinning around she was just in time to see Montez, Herrera's second in command, striding toward her. He'd shot the gun from her hand!

Immediately Fiona lashed out with all her strength, but it was too late. Deftly blocking her blows, Montez grabbed her roughly and spun her around, quickly handcuffing her. She gasped as her injured wrist was twisted behind her.

"You bring a prisoner in here unrestrained?" Montez spat at the guard who had escorted her in. He slapped him across the face with the back of his hand. "Leave!" he said, knowing he was saving the man's life.

The guard knew it, too. Gratefully taking his only chance of survival, both he and his partner hustled for the door.

Turning to the next closest rebel, Montez flung Fiona toward him. "Watch her!" he seethed, and then reached down to help a still dazed Herrera to his feet.

"Señor Herrera, are you alright?" he asked, only half-heartedly trying to mask the disgust in his voice. Herrera was wholly despicable and Montez secretly hoped the woman had done some real damage.

Herrera climbed to his feet, his face a mix of rage, pain, and utter astonishment. Shoving Montez aside he strode toward Fiona who was now handcuffed and being held on either side by two of his soldiers. _This was more like it,_ he thought absently. The hellion was now completely subdued - though even Herrera couldn't help but think how truly ridiculous it looked. Here was this tiny woman, handcuffed and restrained by two fully armed soldiers, both at least twice her size, while the rest of his present forces had their guns trained on her. It was the definition of overkill. Even so he approved wholeheartedly. Once again he halted in front of her. "Well…" he began.

But before he could utter his next word Fiona spat in his face and, using the support unwittingly afforded by her new guards, launched both her feet squarely into his groin.

Herrera's eyes bulged and his cheeks puffed. His face turned scarlet and he staggered a step forward.

Fiona's guards simply stared in slack jawed disbelief. _Again. She'd done it again._

And that was not all. As Herrera listed toward her, Fiona greeted him with a head butt.

He staggered sideways, eyes slightly crossed from the latest unexpected blow, unable to do anything but grasp his manhood with one hand and his head with the other.

Montez had to cough to stifle a laugh. He _really_ liked this woman.

The guards, nearly as stricken by the events as Herrera, finally reacted. Jerking Fiona airborne, they carried her away from striking distance of their boss.

She fought them like a wild thing, straining to reach Herrera again whilst also attacking her captors as best and ferociously as she could with her feet.

Finally, not knowing what else to do, the larger of her guards punched her hard to the side of the head. She collapsed, and they allowed her to unceremoniously fall forward over Herrera's desk. They left her there, one guard still holding a hand to her back to keep her down; just in case she awoke and started all over again. Who knew what she was capable of? Rubbing their shins, they watched her warily.

By now Herrera had somehow managed to both stand and bring the room back into alignment. Once again he made his way toward Fiona, if a bit more gingerly, and this time opting to keep the desk between them. "Take her over there," he seethed, motioning to the other side of the room as he pulled his chair away from the desk and sat himself down oh so gently. "I'll deal with her and you," he looked at the guards balefully, "later."

The guards snapped to attention and nodded in salute. "Stand up!" they ordered Fiona who was still draped face forward across Herrera's desk. They flipped her over roughly, their guns trained on her. She gave no indication of being conscious, but her hands, still cuffed behind her back, secretly and feverishly sought out and grasped a paper clip. _This was not over_.

One of the guards slapped her roughly across the face. "Wake up!" he demanded. This woman had likely cost him his life and he was not in a forgiving mood.

Fiona opened her eyes and struggled to her feet, spitting blood in the face of the soldier who had struck her. The soldier drew back to hit her again but was stopped by Montez.

Waving the guard off, Montez simply grabbed Fiona's handcuffed wrists and forced her forward across the room and into a waiting chair in the corner.

Turning back to the two guards, he looked them in the eye. "Check the perimeter," he ordered.

The men sighed in relief. Montez was giving them a way out. The only perimeter they would be checking was the islands and how to get off of it the quickest. They were forfeiting their paycheck but at least would live to see another day. Saluting Montez, they hurried out the doorway.

Montez sighed. At this rate he'd have no men left! Motioning to another soldier, "Watch her," he said, and couldn't help but catch the look of nervous apprehension on the soldiers face. Sighing, Montez turned to walk away but suddenly stopped. The woman, he recalled, had kept one hand grasped tightly in a fist when he'd escorted her across the room. _Why?_

He turned slowly back toward Fiona and locked eyes with her. _He knew._

Fiona simply glared back, head up and eyes burning with defiance.

Montez felt a surge of respect. He had no love for Herrera and it was decreasing by the moment. He'd come here originally with his two best men, longtime associates whom he considered real soldiers. Not the riffraff Herrera had surrounded himself with and which he was now forced to work and associate with. For the first time in his career he was entertaining ideas of cutting his losses. And if whatever the woman held in her hand would help her, he would not deny her the chance, however slim it might be. He nodded almost imperceptivity toward her and then turned again and walked away.

**A/N:** _THANK YOU to all who take the time to read and review, mark it as a favorite, etc. Thank you soooo much for the encouragement!_

_Oh my, I had a lot of fun writing this chapter! UNFORTUNATELY I decided that 1) since I finished it late, and 2) since I know my BETA Arlothia is as busy as I am, I decided to post this puppy without running it past her first. So. Alllll mistakes are mine. Hope you can follow it!_


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